‘i wrote a love poem dedicated to a tiny square on a screen that i considered to be extremely disrespectful’

you got me feeling some type of way and:
it’s a little girl sleeping in her asleep mother’s lap on the subway, clutching a redheaded doll.
it’s a car that runs on electricity made out of wasted potential.
it’s the smell of somebody else eating McDonalds fries on a moving train.
it’s hamuketsu.
it’s a coffee mug that says DANCE LIKE IT GETS LOW SHAKES ARMS.
it’s a facebook event called WE’RE SAD AND MAKING POOR DECISIONS where the start date has already passed and the end date is forever and everyone on planet earth is invited.
it’s the face a dog wears when it’s dragging its ass across the carpet.
it’s a science fact that says moths french people while they sleep and that’s why no two snowflakes are alike.
it’s a slow dance during last call at a country bar.
it’s the eroticism inherent in watching someone else update a google doc.
it’s a long bus ride on a nice day when you’ve fallen asleep in the seat next to me and i’m looking out the window.
it’s the trunk of an old car converted into a cooler and it’s filled with ice and there are plenty of beers among the ice, and the car is backed halfway into the driveway, and everyone has the day off, and we’re all here and barefoot and LOWER THE HOOP WE DUNKIN’.
it’s a napkin drawing of a mermaid fellating her own tail.
it’s the i’d like to teach the world to sing coke commercial but of shrug emojis.
it’s the little EWW noise lionel richie makes before the guitar solo in EASY LIKE A SUNDAY MORNING.
it’s the smell of fresh tar on what was once my favorite parking lot to skate at.
it’s a metaphor comparing my heart to bernie in weekend at bernie’s II and you to a boombox with the play button pushed.
it’s the casket on wheels that i street-surf gracefully down the cobblestone roads of your city on, with the assistance of a gondola ore because we’re talking romance here.
it’s the pause that happens while eating an ice cream cone when you need to check your phone but where you hold the cone with a bite because you need both hands and you look like a bird.
it’s a text that says i want to put on some lcd soundsystem and throw a party on your body.
it’s my breath blotching the pale skin of your clavicle.
it’s a big blanket that covers everyone in the world and we’re under it with a flashlight or two telling each other stories and giggling and smiling and holding onto each other sometimes.
it’s the fear that i’m going to play it so cool i’ll accidentally cryogenically freeze myself just to thaw into a future where you have lived a long, happy life with another man and where you have also been dead for ten years.